7/30/09

5. Slap a hooker on the ass, see what happens. Life is all about the adventure and sometimes that adventure means running away from a pimp. It'll be a good story to tell when your drunk.

4. Go watch an episode of Yo Gabba Gabba and then come tell me if that's not the wierdest shit you have ever in your life seen. I swear to god that black guy who is the host looks like he's on a heroin high the whole show, all he's missing is the rave. Without a doubt, this show creeps me out.

3. Eat some watermelon. It's summer man, live a little.

2. Don't talk any more policitcs, just for today. Anne Coulter, Rush, Jeannine Garafalo, Nancy--you know they are all full of shit. You know it for gods sake, why do you bother to argue who's more full of shit. They all are and you are completely 100% aware of it. Say it with me: Every politician, pundit, hardcore douche is full of shit, regardless of what they believe in. And either which way, whoever is in charge, you are about to get fucked. So let's just give out hugs not drugs, just for today.

1. Compliment someone's shoes. Who doesn't want to know that they are wearing nice shoes? Well, I don't, not really. But it would really make my wife's day if someone said that they liked her shoes.

7/28/09

This is a love story, but not a conventional one. It's a forbidden one, isn't that the way it always is with a love story?

It's one where all the outside forces are stacked against it, some trying to sabotage it. That's the way it has to be, that's the way it always has to be. This one is no different.

But I must persevere, must I not? Should I turn my back and walk away now, what kind of love story would that make this? It would not make it a love story, it would make it a cowards story and those are reserved for the French.

But I could not walk away. Any man reading this will understand. We will face constant scorn, the looks, the faces people make sometimes when they think you are not looking. They will ridicule.

And I would take the ridicule, over and over again. I would take it gladly, with a happy heart and fulfilled soul. Even when it comes from Hossmom, my dear wife.

"I hate it" she said. I knew she did not like the situation and I knew that deep down on some personal level it may have even hurt her, embarrassed her. But I couldn't stop my love, who could? The heart wants what the heart wants.

"End it." she demanded. I couldn't. What's worse, I couldn't even bring myself to lie that I would. My love was that deeply rooted.

"Go out in the garage, take it with you, and end it." she again demanded.

I sat there, not knowing what to say, not knowing how to defend my emotions. But that's just the thing, isn't it? You don't have to defend your emotions, they are what they are and no clear reasoning can overcome them. You never fully hear the criticism or the good advice, it all just turns into a blur, like they are talking to someone else.

"How could you?" she asked, almost in a whisper. "How could you."

How could I not?

She picked it up, but only with the tips of her fingers as she appeared to afraid to fully hold it, like that would somehow make it a competition. A showdown on who was worth more, who could sway me more, who I loved more.

"How can you even wear this?" she asked. "Seriously, look at this thing."

I did look at it. I have looked at it everyday for the last 2 years and each time I do, happiness finds me once again.

"The mesh on the back makes you look like a hillbilly trucker."

I don't care what it makes me look like, it's how it makes me feel. But I couldn't bring myself to speak, so I just sat there, numb.

"The sweat rings are awful, how can you even put this on your head?"

When you yearn, I mean truly yearn like you have a hole in your soul, it's easy. And when you have no hair and you find a good, no perfect, hat, well at that point it's easy.

A bald head, that's what it comes down to. It's not the look of bald that gets me so much. It's not even the constant jokes from full haired people because I know that one day they will have cancer and get chemo and then be as bald as me and I will laugh at them and their cancer.

It's the sunburn that is the bald mans worst enemy. To sunburn on the top of your head, where you will always have at least one hair colony left, hurts like shit. And when it peels, it's still painful, and disgusting, and you can never get all of it anyway.

So you take precautions. You buy sunblock SPF 3000. Guaranteed not to let one ultraviolet ray in, even is you are standing on the surface of the sun itself. It makes your head all greasy and shiny. People think it's funny to come and rub your shiny head, make jokes about it. People you don't know. People that you have never seen before. "wow, the glare on that noggin is killing me, let me get my sunglasses on." They post pictures of you on the internet with little things written next to your head, like "chrome dome" and "Captain blinding."

And sometimes that sunblock is white and it mixes with your sweat and your hair to make a paste, like you just used speedstick on your head and it's all chalky. Then the jokes get worse, people calling you armpit head, things like that. You die a little bit inside, every time.

So you stay indoors, avoiding the sun and any bright lights. You are afraid to go to places that may have angled mirrors, like Blockbuster because all that does is highlight your skull which is only useful really to Predator as he collects them and you are sure he would like to collect yours.

But your one weapon, the one truly offensive thing you have, is your hat. And if it is a great hat, then it is love. A love deeper than anything full head of hair people will ever understand. You will never get rid of that hat. You will be buried in that hat and when you meet your maker and he asks you if you want a full head of hair or your hat, you'll always choose your hat because your hair are a bunch of untrustworthy pussies that ditched you as soon as you turned 20. Your hat is there for you forever.

I found this hat several years ago and have loved it ever since. As cliche as it sounds, it was love at first sight. One size fits all, one size to cradle my heart. It was the perfect fit. Not to tight that it makes my ears squeeze out, not to lose that a good breeze blows it away. It does have a mesh back, like a truckers hat, but I love it because I also get sweaty head and it ventilates. The front of the hat is canvas and is likewise perfect. With the emblem of my college on it, it rests at the perfect height, the perfect angle. It's not to tall to make me look like Lincoln and not to close to my head that I look like a douchbag gap commercial. It is more comfortable than a mother's bosom, more reliable than the stars, more protecting of all the armies in all the world.

I wear this hat to mow the yard in, to go to the zoo in, to hike in. As a result, the sweat rings are pretty bad because as I have made clear, I tend to sweat like a Llama in the desert. I wear it in the pool, one of the most dangerous places for a bald man. The chlorine has started to bleach some of the dye out of it. I have worn it while wearing nothing but my boxer shorts watching TV, which has given it a definite kind of stink.

And I can't let go of it. It's the best hat I have ever owned. I will not let go of it.

I have washed it, I have put it in the dishwasher, but eventually it ends up back in the same condition that it's in. Because that is who it is, who it always was from the first time I saw it on the rack, and who it will always be. And I will always love it like that.

It's molded at the perfect angles, after so many years on my head. It slips on easily, coming down just far enough over the eyes to protect my steely gaze in the heat of battle that is pulling the weeds out of my yard.

So I will not throw this hat away, tossed aside like some gilted sorority girl on ruffies. No, I will cherish this hat until.......... No, not until. I will just cherish it, forever, and forever, and forever, and forever + 1.

7/26/09

Oh, Christ they are getting big. I don't mean in a sentimental way such as "wow, they grow up so fast, whatever happened to the time." No, I mean in "Son of a bitch they are heavy, my back is starting to hurt."

I thought Little Hoss would make it further than she did. I thought she could do the whole hike. 1.5 miles of natures awesomeness with dad. Look at the trees, look at the bushes, look at the deer. It was going to be cool. Superdad that doesn't shy away from a challenge, take his kids anywhere, kick so much ass as a SAHD that all would look upon us with awe.

She made it about a quarter of a mile.

Now she is sitting on top of my shoulders, all 40 pounds of her. It doesn't sound like a lot and most of the time it isn't. It's after 1/2 a mile that it feels like a lot. I should have joined the army just so I could learn to properly "hump it" across the trial. But I didn't so now I'm learning way past my prime.

Bubba Hoss is being pretty good though, all 21 pounds of him. He's talking to himself, occasionally mentioning that there is a tree over there. He's on my back in a backpack made for small children. It also turns out that this thing isn't as comfortable after a half mile either. And he keeps kicking me in the spine. Knock it off man, that's starting to leave marks.

60 pounds of kid destruction, that's what I have on my back. Christ, when did they get so huge?

It's hot. It's Africa hot. It's the kind of hot that you remember when you are 80 years old and eating tapioca pudding. "Remember how hot it was when I took the kids hiking in the woods? Hottest summer in a decade, a yup. Where's my pudding and that hot nurse?"

I'm sweating like a fat kid peeling an orange. It's dripping down on me in torrents. If I had sweet abs they would be glistening and the ladies would be coming out of the forest to watch me walk by. But I don't. What I have instead is a hairy belly. Little known fact about hairy belly's. They absorb sweat like the super shammy. Soaks it all up like bread in a bowl of milk of your spent cereal. Makes it steamy so now it's hotter than it should be. Don't think the irony of this is lost on me. God decided to take away all my hair on my head leaving me like a cueball but awarded me with an abundance of chest and belly hair. Thanks man, that worked out well. The platypus was stupid by the way. What do you think about that? Oh great, look at all that back hair. Maybe I'll just shut up now.

Yes dear, I see the butterfly. Yes dear, I see the rocks. Yes dear, I see the bugs. The bugs won't hurt you. Yes honey, I know that Bubba Hoss is just right there but let's please stop trying to turn around to see him. And no more spitting while you are sitting up there until we have a chance to work on your aim.

I'm so thirsty. I thought I had brought enough water and was prepared but I failed to take in kid law. It's a very simple law of nature. It says that you are never prepared and they will break whatever you have anyway. I made the mistake of giving Little Hoss the water while she was riding me like a pack mule. Sure, she took her slug, even tried to give her brother some. Then she very gleefully dumped the rest down my neck and back. It felt good at first and I wasn't to upset. Now I'm upset.

The water mingled with my back sweat and made a nice little beeline to my ass. Now I have crack sweat and I'm pretty sure everyone can see it. Not that I have to worry about that though, we haven't run into many people out here. If we had, I would offer to pay their college tuition if they just carried one of these dead weights.

What have they been eating? Have I been feeding them bits of steel and bricks? That is the only explanation that I have as to why they weigh more than Andre the Giant. Maybe Hossmom has been feeding them lead weights. Doesn't she know the dangers of lead poisoning? She's probably pissed off at me and this is her passive aggressive way of paying me back.

It's moments like these that you like these that you like to blame everyone else except yourself. It's a survival technique. For example, I am currently damning to hell anyone and everyone that thinks nature is a good thing and promote it. They can all suck it as they rot in hell. I bet they are all vegans that hate humanity, and me in particular. Get kids out of the house, they say. Get them outside with nature, they say. Screw them. Dora the Explorer has probably done more good for kids than the entire rain forest.

Get your fingers out of my ears, guys. And stop with the freaking kicking. The next one that kicks me is going to hear the story of Hansel and Gretel without the good parenting ending, you got it? This hike would be a lot easier if you guys stop playing my head like a drum.

I would love to take a break. The kids, however, like to keep moving. They meltdown every time I try to put one of them down. It's my own fault. I have raised them to move, to keep going, to adventure. We go out just about every day. Another one of my Dad is Cool things that I am currently rethinking. It's normally fun for me. We do stuff that they like but stuff that I like to. We visit graveyards, civil war battlefields, art museums, donkey shows. I know that one day I'll end up back in a cubicle working next to Smelly McTalkLoud and I want to take full advantage of staying at home with them. Now they won't stop until we've had a full adventure. Damn me, why am I so awesome?

So we go, do all the fun stuff that is only really fun when you have kids as an excuse. When was the last time you went down a water slide screaming WEEEEEEE! Little note on that--water slides are made for children, not 250 pound hairy bellied men. You can feel every bump on the way down and I may have sprained my neck.

I didn't pack any aspirin or icy hot. Something to keep in mind when I decide not to go hiking again with the children. I didn't think a three hour romp through the woods would require me to bring things like bengay or an occupational therapist.

They were getting a little hungry so I gave them a little baggie of gold fish crackers to eat. Yet another bad idea on the hike of hell. Turns out that when crushed gold fish, head sweat, and water are mixed together it makes a nice little crumbly paste. I bet you could make a pie crust like this. It wouldn't taste very good but I bet you could do it.

Oh thank god, there's the car. We are almost there guys, just hang on, we're almost there. For the last time, stop kicking me before I dump everyone in the stream.

7/19/09

It can't be killed. It is some type of genetic freaky mutant thing that is resistant to anything and everything. It's the herpes of weeds. It's just there, it's always there. And it can't be killed.

I've tried. I've tried everything. I sprayed pesticide on it and it just burped and asked for some crackers. I have tried pulling it out by the roots but it just cracks it's knuckles and spits on me. It's very humiliating.

I have even trained the dog to pee on it every single day, twice a day, for the last year. His urine kills everything, it kills middle east peace plans. But not the weed, it's just there. It's always there. It's there in my dreams.

I've never seen anything like this before. They don't have weeds like this where I'm from. It's Twilight Zone weird. I expect it any minute to start producing gremlins that like to tear apart planes and drive old guys insane.

If I couldn't just kill it, that would be one thing. I could learn to live in peace with it. Neighbors, not by choice. It won't leave. I can accept that. But it's not just a superweed that won't die. It grows. It grows like you have never seen before. It "Drink Me" grows. It's almost immediate. What I thought was just a simple weed is actually a vine.

It's a beast of a vine. And it grows up and over everything like it is on steroids or like it just got shocked by Gamma Radiation and I have made it mad, so very very mad.

It does not flower. It does not bear fruit that I can make wine out of it. It just has very broad leaves that look like they are constantly trying to smack me in the face each time I pass so that I don't forget my place.

I started this fight a year ago. It had wrapped itself around my evergreen bush in the backyard. It was slowly killing it. The only thing it does fast is grow. When it kills, it likes to do it slowly so it can look into your eyes and call you a pussy.

I went under the bush and found the roots. I pulled them. I pulled out the leaves, I pulled out the little grabby tentacles. I pulled until my hands were chapped, torn while fighting for the life of my bush.

But I missed something, somewhere and next week it was back. I pulled again, and again it came back. I got a front loader and said "GET AWAY FROM HER YOU BITCH!" and then I threw it out the airlock.

It came back. It always comes back. Now there are several of them under the deck. A little army of angry weed vines. Have you ever seen that movie the Ruins? Go rent it and you will know what I'm dealing with.

I even called in the heavy hitters. The same people that Chicago brings in when they need someone "taken care" of. I called in Little Hoss and Bubba Hoss. You have not seen destruction until you have seen them in action.

Give them a hammer and by the time you come back your house would be in ruins and your cat would be smacked around. Give them a paperclip and your car would be stolen, stripped for parts, and a dirty diaper would be left in your mailbox.

They showed up bright and early. They like there ass wrecking to begin promptly at 7:30.

I gave them a blow torch, a pack of Pal Malls and a box of wipes.

Take that you fucker.

An hour later I went back outside. The vine weed was still there and if possible, had grown another 10 feet and was now creeping up the side of my deck. Little Hoss and Bubba Hoss were petting it.

I am out of ideas. I have nothing left to try. I have brainstormed and keep coming up empty. Should I start talking bad to it now? They say that talking to plants helps, so what if I tell the vine that it is a piece of shit who's own mother didn't want it. Would that work. If I told it that I have seen better foliage on the underside of a bridge, would it cry and shrivel up?

Maybe I'll just go the bad neighbor route. Make it so unbearable to live next to me that it will move on it's own. Do things like play my music to loud, party all night, light bags of poo in front of it and then run away.

I'm out of options and I have a feeling that time is working against me. Death will take one of us and I'm not liking my chances.

Kids running, running, gotta get there, gotta play hard, gotta play fast. Oh, look there is the trampoline, gotta jump, gotta jump high and gotta jump hard. Ouch, I busted my lip. I don't want to get down, you can't make me get down. Ok, I'll get down and you take me to my dad and I'll show him my bloody lip. Look dad, I have a bloody lip, I'm a real man now, gotta get back.

The swing set, that's cool, gotta sing on it, gotta swing high and hard. Let's climb to the top because that's really high. Now down the slide, WEEEEEEEE, that was cool, let's do that again. But I want to climb up the slide and I can't with my flip flops on. Here dad take these, they are a pain, stupid shoes, let me go shoeless like Tom Sawyer, he was cool, I'm cool, I want to go rafting. Where did my shoes go?

Gotta go potty, where is the potty, hey someone take me potty. I gotta go over here! You there, tall guy, you look like a dad, take me to the potty before I ruin this carpet. Ya know, I don't really care one way or another. But I gotta go, now are you going to take me?

Now I'm dancing, because dancing is cool. Look Dad, I'm doing the Charleston. See dad, see dad, see dad, PAY ATTENTION TO ME! I'm dancing. Hey, now everyone dance, see we're all dancing. And we're next to the kiddie pool. Can I get in? Please dad? Can I please get in? I'm going to get in. What you mean no! That's not right, I want to get in the pool, let me in the pool, I don't need my dress on, here, let me take it off. Let go of ME! NO! I WANT TO GO IN THE POOL! Put me down. I swear I'll kick you in the junk! Put me down! I don't want to get in the car, I don't want to go home.

7/12/09

She has on her little face something between a smirk and a sneer. At 3 years old she has a thousand yard stare as she looks down the paintball gun sight.

I will be the first to admit that I have made some mistakes as a father. And when I make them, they usually don't seem like mistakes at the time. It comes back to me much later when I'm telling the story and the person I'm telling it to has a wide eyed expression that seems to say "I can't believe you don't need a license to have kids." They then laugh politely while looking for any excuse to run away. Their head starts darting from side to side trying to find someone to rescue them from the conversation and they begin to act like they have forgotten about an important appointment that they just now made. That's when I know that perhaps I have made a mistake with my children.

For example: I was recently telling Papa Scrum that I taught Little Hoss how to do boxing on the Wii. She grabs the controllers and just goes crazy. And when she knocks the computer animated person down, she says "Get up punk!" which I also thought was funny. Papa Scrum asked me if this was really a good idea, considering my daughter's mongoness. In hindsight, probably not. On the other hand, she has a really good jab/uppercut combo. You should see her.

This last week I also thought it was a good idea to take both my children to a graveyard. It's a working graveyard but also a very old historic one. We were looking for the grave of Cole Younger and his family. They are famous outlaws that used to ride with Jessie James. I thought the kids would have a blast and I would enjoy the history. On those two qualifications the trip was a major success. However, if not desecrating graves were on the list, then this would have been a failure. Oh, we found the right graves all right. My children where so excited that they started climbing over every headstone they could find. How to explain respect for the dead to a 3 and 2 year old? We topped the outing off with both of them eating some fresh gravedirt. I know that it's just like regular dirt, but I got the feeling that this was worse somehow. Indian burial ground kind of worse and I've been waiting for it to come back to me all week.

But both of those mistakes might not compare to letting my daughter handle a fully loaded, semi-automatic paint gun. I am chock full of good parenting decisions. Are you taking notes? This is how you parent.

It was over the 4th of July weekend. Yes, we had a great time thank you. Papa Scrum invited us over for some barbecue and fireworks because that's also what you do. You get some meat and cook it just south of burnt and call it a day. We let the kids go swimming and run around outside while the adults constantly tried to push off the supervision on which ever parent was closest.

4 beers into the evening the paint gun came out. Sleek, black, full of misspent youth. Oh yes, you are Rambo my friend. You could jump out from behind a waterfall and dispense justice to those wishing to not have justice dispensed.

Father Hitman brought it out. Yes, Father Hitman. You bring a paintball gun to the 4th of July, you get stuck with a name like Father Hitman.

"You want to try it?" Father Hitman asks.

Yes. Yes I do.

But we have to be quick before the children realize that we have mechanized awesome in our hands.

Jinx.

They come running over. Should we let them try it? He says let them try it. Will Hossmom give me a look once she finds out that says "I'm to polite now to say anything but on the car ride home I'm going to rip your ass once we are away from all the people." Probably. But by then my plan is to be to tanked to notice anyway. Besides, HE let HIS kids do it! That is always a well reasoned argument.

Slowly the kids line up and take their turn. Little Hoss is giddy. This is better than Christmas. This is better than Popsicles in the bathtub. This is better than stealing her little brother's cookie while dad is asleep.

She caresses it, more delicate than her favorite toy. The steel feels like family to her touch, the smell of oil the scent of a thousand roses. The weight somewhere between perfect and deadly perfect. Yes, she is home. This is where she is meant to be. All she is missing now is a combat boots and a helmet with a sarcastic peace symbol on it.

Father Hitman squats down to help her aim, which is a good idea. She does not believe in aiming. Aiming, in short, is for pussies.

She places her hand on the trigger and the connection is made. Pure, sweet and simple. So simple that a 3 year old could do this.

She pushes the trigger and the gun makes a little "pop" sound and she shudders with satisfaction. Her fingers tingle, again, she wants to shoot something again! Where are you at greasy Easter Bunny. You giant polyester freak! Come to me! Let's see you try to make me sit on your lap now. And you too mall Santa, I got something for you!

Hossmom comes over with the rest of the wives.

Crap.

They all sit there watching. I start to try to explain. My mind is working as rapidly as the semi automatic gun that my daughter now holds. Terroists, there in the woods, are trying to ruin our July 4th. A bear terroist. A Bear terroist who did not bring any guacomole dip. Right there, in the woods.

And then all the wives smile. They smile and continue making small talk. They hug thier kids and drink thier drinks. They talk about wife stuff. Like how to not leave bruises when they beat thier husbands for letting thier precious little babies play with paintball guns.

But no, that's not what they are talking about. They are talking about potty training and work and what they are doing the next weekend. They are laughing at the kids shooting a tree. They barely seem to notice us but instead notice that they are having uninterupted conversations.

One of two things have happened here. 1. They are all so desperate for some adult conversation without either a husband or a child pulling on thier boobs, or 2. They are terrified that thier children are now armed. Yes, yes, it's the perfect scenerio.

We are all stay at home dads. We interact with the children. We have trained them like Mr. Miyagi, they know the flying crane and the drum punch. And they are our minions.

7/2/09

5 things that I can write because no one will read this shit anyway since its the day before July 4. I can pretty much pop off all I want here and it won't matter because you'll either be watching fireworks or drunk while naked, either way, be careful where you point that thing.

5. If those fucking teenagers catch my house on fire from the fireworks they are popping in the street, I will go to their house, kick them in the balls, take a shit in their closet, punch their mother for letting them, and then happily jerk off on every pillow they own. Seriously dude, I'm not fucking around here. And if you wake up my kid, then I'm making you come over until she goes back to bed. But before I do I'm feeding her soda and cocaine. Good luck with that buttholes.

4. Slut Bungwalla.

3. I look at my poop after I take a dump.

2. When I was a kid, my brother sister and I were riding in the back of a truck. We were on the tailgate. We hit a bump and my sister went flying. She was 5 years old. My brother grabbed her in midair and was barely holding on to her. I couldn't help because I was laughing to hard. For some reason, it was the funniest thing that I had ever seen. To this day, she won't let me live it down. It was like 25 years ago.

1. I'm not sorry that Micheal Jackson is dead. That's right, I don't much care. Musical genius, sure. Great dancer, ok if you say so. Liked to touch young boys, looks like it. That's right, I said it. He liked to dilly with their junk and I refuse to feel any remorse that someone like that is dead. Suck it. I used to investigate shit like this. I've seen what this does. So fuck him. And he named his kid Blanket. Who the fuck does that, what kind of parent is that? I've also read that 12 people of his fan club committed suicide. World's better off without you, please tell me you didn't reproduce first Sure, I know it's harsh. But I don't much care. We are ripping the governor that got a piece on the side but celebrated the life of a dude who liked them young and hairless. That makes no sense to me. Don't get me wrong, the governor is a douchebag too but doesn't compare to a pedophile. Need to get your priorities straight, that's all I'm saying.

The Inner Hoss

Let me explain it this way: I have a college degree and had a job. I quit it on purpose to teach my three minions how to be minions. After 8 years the kids have only broken 1/2 of what we've seen but the other half is on the list.